Shirtsleeves
by electriccghosts
Summary: An artist who depicts Batman in a series of intimate paintings intrigues both Bruce Wayne and Batman. Bruce struggles with his desire to keep distance and play billionaire playboy to protect the woman and his growing feelings for her while she unknowingly engages with the man who saved her life in an alley eight years prior. How long can he keep up the charade?


While charity events and galas were frequent events for Bruce Wayne, he didn't often go to art galleries. He especially didn't go to galleries for up and coming artists, as the media called them. If Wayne Industries wasn't involved, he wasn't likely to be there. However cruel it sounded, Bruce was a busy man. He needed more hours than the day provided. Bothering himself with events that didn't guarantee him investors, events that weren't an attempt to calm the city- they were a waste of time. Alfred reminded him of this the entire drive to the art district of Gotham City where he dropped him off in front of the brick building wielding a rusty looking sign reading 'THE 46'. The building bustled with activity, inside and out. Bruce had hoped not to draw too much attention to himself, but with a camera flash as soon as he stepped out of his limo, all hopes of confidentiality were lost.

A flashy smile automatically graced his face. He was so used to putting up a façade at events that sometimes he believed what he was selling. It felt good to occasionally get wrapped up in the social games. No, he wasn't Batman. He didn't have the weight of a city on his shoulders. He didn't have secrets and enemies and a deadly little black book. He was Bruce Wayne, philanthropist billionaire playboy. His black book held names and numbers, not deaths and leads. The only secrets he held were the touches of the women he took home. He was a normal 34 year old in the city of dreams.

If only. No matter how hard he tried or wanted to forget, he was Batman. He could only push out the voices for so long. They flooded his mind, constantly whispering. Sometimes they were so intense he had to bury himself in a bottle of whiskey. Other times the madness fueled his fight against Gotham's worst. Whatever the circumstance, Bruce had come to terms with most of his demons. He was content with the long nights, the voices and the cameras. This particular evening, he had found a subtle balance between Bruce Wayne and Batman- something that didn't occur very often. It left him feeling euphoric.

He shook hands and posed for pictures as he walked into the building. Small talk was second nature to him. He barely remembered what he was saying; the conversation flew so natural. _You spew bullshit, Bruce_, he would tell himself later that evening. But in the moment he enjoyed every second. He had finally managed to work his way into the building. Inside, the atmosphere was light… almost romantic. The stark walls were adorned with collections of paintings, spotlights fixated on showcasing the masterpieces. Statues were sporadically placed, outlined with lush red rope. Faint music could be heard under the chatter of the crowd. A young man wearing black dress pants, a white button down shirt, and a bright blue and orange polka dotted tie approached him with a tray of drinks. Bruce declined. He felt too good to drink the demons in. Besides, he was on a mission. He wasn't one to drink on the job.

Yes, Bruce Wayne was appearing as himself on this mission. Word had quickly spread about this particular gallery at THE 46 due to a batty collection that was debuting. Bruce was both interested in seeing the art modeled after his alter ego, as well as seeing if whoever the artist was had any insight into his true identity. Unable to identify any collections from the door, he strolled around the gallery. Polite hellos were exchanged as he trailed his way around corners. Until he saw it. Under bright lights were three paintings depicting Batman. Taken aback by the nature of the paintings and the talent in the art, he approached, nearly speechless.

The first in the set seemed like a typical depiction. Batman stood on a rooftop, Gotham below him. The sky held the bat signal. It was a relatively normal painting, executed so well it almost looked like a photo. The next two held the same quality, but the material was far more disturbing. The middle painting took place in an alley. In the forefront of the painting was a young woman lying on the ground in what looked like a puddle of blood and water. She was only half clothed; what was on her body was tattered and blood stained. In the background of the photo Batman held what Bruce assumed was a criminal in the air by the neck. The scene was startling, sending shivers down his spine. It was so raw looking. He averted his glaze to the final photo. It featured Batman standing in the middle of an unorganized office-type room. His shirt was off, revealing abs covered by scars. He wore pajama pants, but the mask remained on his face. In one hand he held a manila folder, flipped open with white pages spilling out onto the floor. A cup of steaming coffee was in the mother hand. In the background Bruce could see a large corkboard with pictures and red lines, seemingly connecting crimes and criminals in Gotham. A desk, as well as the floor, held piles of papers and folders- notes and scribbles. It was odd to see the scene- almost disturbing to have Batman in such a domestic environment.

Bruce was so tangled in the paintings that it took him a few moments to notice someone was standing next to him. He didn't even look out of the corner of his eye to assess the person before opening his mouth and saying, "These are pretty intense, aren't they?"

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Startled, he turned, as did the woman next to him. He looked at her for a long moment, digesting her. In heels, she was just a few inches shorter than he. She was wearing a hugging red dress that had a square collar. It was the perfect length, falling in the middle of her thighs. Around her neck was a thin gold necklace. Her skin was fair, her face smooth. Her almond eyes held an exotic emerald green color, rimmed in a thin layer of black eyeliner, highlighted by her long eyelashes and sculpted eyebrows. He couldn't tell if her high cheekbones were naturally flushed or lightly painted. Her nose was small and straight, with hard edges, and her full lips were coated in a red that matched her dress. Jet black hair was twisted into a perfectly unkempt bun, sitting low at the base of her head. Bruce couldn't help but stare at her body in the dress; it showcased her hourglass figure.

She, too, couldn't help but marvel at Gotham's mighty Bruce Wayne. She'd seen him in magazines and newspapers, even on TV. But in person he was so much more. She never expected such an air of mystery to surround the man. He oozed of secrets and sex appeal. Bruce Wayne was dangerously attractive, that was for sure.

"You did these?" He questioned after quickly looking her over. "You don't seem the type. Bruce Wayne, by the way."

"I know who you are, Mr. Wayne," She smiled, trying to suppress a laugh. Of course she knew who he was. She'd lived in Gotham her whole life. "Giselle Yoder. I am the artist of these pieces, even though I apparently don't seem the type… whatever that means."

He kissed her hand softly, and Giselle hoped her blush was concealed by her makeup.

"I meant they seem pretty dark. You can call me Bruce, by the way. No need for formalities."

"Okay, Bruce," Giselle prompted. "I'm sorry if my subject matter is startling for you, but art is about expression and emotion."

"And what kind of emotion do these paintings have? Why Batman?" Bruce questioned, trying too hard not to sound like he was interrogating her.

"I was stabbed and raped eight years ago and Batman saved me," Giselle said bluntly. She noticed her companion's face changed, and she prompted an apology. "I'm sorry to be so frank, but you asked, and I think it's important to understand the story behind the work."

Bruce instantly tried to remember her face. Eight years was a long time… a lot of bad guys, too much innocence lost. He scanned his mind trying to think of alleys and stabbed girls left for dead. He came up blank. Everything had blurred together. He could no longer remember faces and places, just the darkness of the city.

"No, I understand," He quickly recovered.

"You understand being sliced from your stomach to your breasts and then being raped?" Giselle questioned defensively.

"I didn't mean it like that," Bruce stated flatly. "You know that."

"It's just a peeve of mine. Everyone always says they understand, but how do you understand a trauma you didn't live through? How do you understand when you don't wake up in cold sweats and have nightmares?"

"I still have nightmares about my parents' death," Bruce contributed. His nightmares extended beyond their death, but he left that part out. "I understand what trauma does to a person."

Giselle blushed, and Bruce could see it. She quickly changed the subject.

"Ever since that night I've been fascinated with Batman. Who is behind the mask? Is there even anyone behind the mask? How does one person- creature- whatever he is… how does he protect the city? Why? I'm sorry- I probably sound crazy. Only I would ramble about Batman in front of Bruce Wayne."

Bruce couldn't help but smile at the irony of the situation, "Don't apologize. Go on."

"I paint a lot of him," She admitted. "But I decided to do a series. The first one is supposed to symbolize what we all think Batman is. It captures the heroic nature of the enigma that is Batman- on the rooftops waiting to serve justice. The middle is the night of my attack. What I remember of it. I blacked out after a while, going in and out of consciousness only to see Batman save me. That there, in the background, is the last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital. The last one is supposed to show Batman at home. I wanted to domesticate him without removing the idea that he is still the hero. Even if he takes off the costume, he is still Batman. I tried to capture the idea that justice never sleeps."

If only she knew. While the irony wasn't lost on Bruce, he couldn't help but cringe at her words. She was right. No matter how hard he tried to not be Batman… he still bore the weight of the city. Without his mask he may appear to be Gotham's poster boy, but he was still their mysterious vigilante. He pressed himself further trying to remember Giselle. He would have to look her up later in the Bat Cave, but no matter how hard he thought, he couldn't remember a girl being sliced open in an alley. How could he forget someone like her?

"Anyway, it seems as if I've disturbed you beyond reason, so I'll excuse myself. Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne."

"I told you, it's Bruce," He interjected. "Thank you for your time; you are a wonderful artist. I'll be seeing you, Miss Yoder."

He nodded and gave her a cocky grin before turning sharply and disappearing into the crowd. Giselle stood frozen for a moment. She was star struck. Not to mention seeing the one and only Bruce Wayne in person made her feel like a thirteen year old school girl. She tried her best to seem cool and collected, but inside she was screaming. She understood why all the girls fell over their own feet for the man. Her eyes darted across the room looking for her best friend, Molly. Molly wasn't an artist. She was the farthest thing from an artist. One time in college Giselle had tried to teach her the basics and Molly ended up with a flesh wound and pencil shavings stuck in her hair for days. That Christmas, she ended up giving Giselle a homemade picture of the two made out of elbow noodles on pink cardstock. It was the thought that counted.

Molly was there for emotional support. And for what she called 'unavailable rich guys with a soft side'. From the day they met at orientation their freshman year of college, Molly was a little… boy crazy. She liked partying, boys, and math. She always said that numbers were a way to balance out the craziness she created. Her favorite way to get rid of a hangover was to crunch numbers. By days she worked in a bank, and at night she could be found club hopping and eating lobster with men in fancy suits. The blonde was complicated in a way that shouldn't be- a way Giselle could never really explain but loved anyway. And at the moment, she was dangling off the arm of a boy much younger than she in slacks that barely touched his ankles, bright pink socks, and neon yellow suspenders. Not her type, and defiantly not an unavailable rich guy with a soft side.

As Giselle crossed the room, she stopped only to grab a chute of expensive wine off the tray of a caterer. She nodded a thanks and held her finger to so the girl would stay put as she shot-gunned the flute and delicately placed it back on the silver plated tray. Under the disapproving stare of the young woman, she grabbed another and scurried off to her destination.

"Molly!" Giselle whispered loudly, coming to a hard halt in front of the two. "I need to talk to you."

"About your encounter with the one and only Bruce Wayne? You dirty dog, you!" Molly exclaimed, her eyes wide. She turned to the unimpressed hipster and waved him away. "I'll find you later, sweetie. I need some girl time, okay?"

"How did you know?" Giselle asked, almost frantically.

"It's almost old news now, G. Don't worry," Molly smiled. Her bright red lips stretched across her tan face. "So, how is he?"

"Handsome, charming… did I say handsome yet?" Giselle gushed, though she tried not to.

"I don't think I've ever seen you so riled up," Molly taunted. "Did Mr. Wayne get your panties in a bunch?"

"He likes my art."

"He likes _any_ girls' art if it helps him put another notch in his bedpost."

"I'm serious. He genuinely seemed intrigued with my display."

"Alright," Molly put her hands up in defense. "So Bruce Wayne's got some weird unresolved issues with Batman. Totally not creepy at all."

"I don't know why you have to be such a bitch," Giselle huffed before taking a big gulp of her wine. "Excuse me for being excited. It'll never happen again. You'll be stuck with a boring, apathetic best friend for the rest of eternity."

"You're so melodramatic," Molly rolled her eyes.

"I don't see why you have to ruin my excitement. It's my first showcase at an art gallery. Not to mention an established gallery. This isn't a coffee shop in downtown Gotham. It's the real deal. And I debuted a set that is a little unorthodox, so sorry for being excited that there's hype and that a local celebrity talked to me."

"Don't be like that," Molly sighed. "Get some more of that pricy booze in you and you'll feel better. I promise."

"Way to encourage alcoholism."

"Debbie downer!" Molly exclaimed with a smile. "So, I'll probably head to the Artic tonight with Phoenix. No, that's probably not his real name so don't ask me. Can you handle a cab home?"

"Yeah, sure," Giselle frowned. "Call me if you need me. Be safe."

"I know, Mom," Molly rolled her eyes. It was a speech Giselle gave her every night in college. She knew the drill.

"I'm serious. The Artic is in a shitty neighborhood. Don't do anything sketchy, and don't be afraid to call me."

"Never," Molly grinned, then planted a sloppy wet kiss on Giselle's cheek. "You're doing great, GG. Don't stress. Have a good night."

"Thanks, you too," Giselle sighed, and then watched her best friend disappear into the crowd again.

She waited until the sparkly black dress and head full of platinum blonde hair was no longer in sight before she turned away and made her way back to her display, dropping off another empty glass with a bow-tied youth. She hoped it was a caterer and not someone there for the art, but not enough to double check. While only having a little over an hour left in the gallery showing, the place was still busy with bodies. Giselle noticed more people gathering around her pieces, more words exchanged behind the protection of hands. A flash or two, prompted by security making a round trying to confiscate the unauthorized photography. Though she had made her friendly rounds to other artist at the beginning of the night, boredom set in and her feet began to ache from her stilettos, so she tried to keep moving to occupy herself. Another flute of alcohol elevated her to being a barely tipsy enough to keep a constant smile on her face. Finally when the crowd thinned and her feet were at a level of pain that made her wince, she headed to the front of the building to check out and leave.

"Hey, Mandy," She annunciated, leaning against the large glass desk near the doors. "So my feet hurt, my head hurts, and I think my tongue is about to fall out from talking so much. Safe to go?"

"Wait a second!" She quipped, almost jumping into action.

Giselle's heart raced. She had done something wrong. Of course she had. Her first time at a big time gallery and she messed it up.

"You were quite a success tonight. We're very impressed," Mandy, the curator grinned. "And we weren't the only ones. Bruce Wayne was very interested in your work and bought the trio for… a substantial amount over the price tag."

"What?" Giselle questioned slowly.

"He didn't want to know the price. He just said they were worth the amount to him," Mandy said, sliding a piece of paper in Giselle's direction. "Of course, we get twenty percent."

Giselle choked when she read the yellow receipt transaction. She hadn't wanted to sell the pieces at first. She was attached to them in a way she couldn't describe. So when she priced them at five thousand a piece, she almost hoped they didn't sell. But seeing thirty five thousand dollars printed next to Bruce Wayne's signature was an unexpected pleasure.

"You're kidding me, right?" Giselle finally asked.

"I tried explaining to him that the figure was way above the asking price, but he wasn't having any of it. Billionaire stubbornness, I suppose. He also left you this… and said there would be a car outside waiting to take you home so you didn't have to take a cab."

Giselle blushed slightly as she accepted the envelope. Mandy looked on with an expression of interest and jealousy as Giselle pried open the letter. Inside was a handwritten note, sprawled out quickly.

_ Giselle, _

_ I enjoyed talking with you tonight. Care to have dinner with me tomorrow night? Le Bernardin on 51__st__ at 5 pm. Hope to see you there. _

_ Bruce Wayne _

Even his signature looked expensive. Giselle clutched the note close to her chest to keep Mandy's gossiping eyes away. She thanked the woman, who said she'd be in touch, then grabbed her purse from the back room and headed outside. To her pleasure, most of the photographers had parted. The money had gone, and so had they. She wasn't used to bright flashes and big bulbs. After graduating with a degree in art history, Giselle spent a year in France working with an appraiser. When she got back to Gotham, she had a hard time finding a job, and after a year working retail, she found a position in an antiques shop. After a few years at the privately owned shop, she received a position at the Gotham Museum of Art as a restoration artist, and then worked her way up to appraisals. She was only at the GMoA for two years before she made the decision to commit more time to her personal art. She couldn't afford to quit all together, so she agreed to cut her hours at the museum. Nothing glamorous. No lights, no press. The last year had only given her coffee shops and small galleries. Nothing like THE 46.

Defiantly no limousines waiting for her on the street with a suited driver standing tall against the vehicle, awaiting her arrival. The middle aged man, upon spotting her, opened the door for her.

"Mr. Wayne did not want you taking a taxi home, Miss Yoder. He sends his well wishes and hopes to see you tomorrow evening."

"Oh…," Giselle was startled and taken aback by the events. She tried to be confident, but the entire night was a whirlwind of new experiences. She clutched her purse and the opened letter in her hands and nodded, climbing into the backseat. "Thank you very much."

The door shut and a moment or two later the driver slid into the front seat. He looked back in the rearview mirror only to ask her address. Giselle cautiously gave him her address and tried to relax. The leather seat was stiff and uninviting, and she felt like her dress was riding up. The entire silent drive, she sat with baited breath. Maybe Bruce Wayne didn't leave this limo for her. Maybe it was a creepy kidnapper who saw they were talking and was trying to take her away and sell her on the black market. Maybe it was an elaborate prank. Or maybe-

They came to a stop. Through the tinted windows, Giselle could see her brick townhouse, cozied between two other units. The driver was quick to jump out and open her door. He extended a hand to help Giselle stand up out of the vehicle. She accepted awkwardly, hugging her purse tight in her other arm. She thanked the man, and he responded with a nod. She could feel his eyes on her the entire time, almost burning holes into her backside. She fumbled for her keys, and once inside the comforting embrace of her home, took pleasure in securing all five of her locks. Molly had told her five was a little excessive. But Giselle was paranoid. She chalked it up to her attack… it could have been prevented if she were just a little less reckless… a little more attentive.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Check.

She let out a sigh of relief and finally kicked off her unfriendly heels. She padded into the kitchen and laid her purse on the island top, fishing out the note to read it once more. And then another time. Her tipsy gaze zoomed in and her heart fluttered.

_Hope to see you there._

_ Bruce Wayne _


End file.
